


Why Do You Doubt Your Senses?

by catstrophysics



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Christmas Eve, Christmas Party, Getting Together, M/M, Mostly Fluff, die hard is NOT a christmas movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:14:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28278207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catstrophysics/pseuds/catstrophysics
Summary: Three Christmas Eves of Grantaire and Enjolras dancing around each other.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 38
Collections: The Hoeliday Exchange 2020





	Why Do You Doubt Your Senses?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Betyouwatchthesunsettoo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Betyouwatchthesunsettoo/gifts).



_Christmas Eve, six years ago_

To an observer, Grantaire looked the part of a regular Grinch. Christmas Eve rolled around and he picked up an extra shift at the coffee shop, didn’t sing along to the same five songs playing on repeat, and wore his work-mandated Santa hat askew.

Two nights before, he’d been added to a group chat with a handful of numbers he hadn’t saved by his coworker, Jehan. After the shuffle of sorting out who was who (and a fair amount of scolding for who eventually turned out to be Courfeyrac, who’d insisted he was anyone but), Grantaire learned they were having a Christmas party at Jehan’s flat, and he’d been invited. 

All he knew of the rest of the crowd was what Jehan had told him and the few who’d dropped into the shop while they were both on shift. As such, his nerves were singing as he counted down the minutes to the end of his shift alone—of course Jehan wasn’t there, they’d needed to clean their flat, but Grantaire resented them ever-so-slightly for ditching him anyways—and served peppermint mochas with as much efficiency as he could muster. 

8:00, clock out, stuff his Santa hat in his backpack along with his work uniform, and dig through his messages to find Jehan’s address. Paris was beautiful, if cold, as he stepped onto the street. He kept his hands crammed firmly in his pockets—next to his gloves, which he’d neglected to actually put on, and _was Paris always this cold this time of year?_ —as he walked the six blocks to Jehan’s house, pausing to check if he was walking the right direction at every street corner despite making the trip dozens of times before. By the messages in the group chat, he’d be the last there, but that didn’t matter much. Fashionably late worked well enough, and it was better to stay a little mysterious, anyways. 

He could see his breath as he walked, and spent the next five minutes fantasizing about all the warm things he could do once he made it to his friend’s flat: steal a mug of mulled cider, hog all the blankets, or get his breath crushed out of him by Atlas. Jehan must have been watching out the window, as before he even had his thumb on the intercom button the door was buzzing unlocked, little red light flicking to green to welcome him up. 

Atlas greeted him at the door, 140 pounds of fluffy-furred Newfoundland launching himself into the hall. Grantaire caught him, a laugh forcing itself out of his throat in surprise, and he disentangled himself dutifully. 

Jehan’s flat was smallish, barely big enough for a human and a dog to live without tripping over each other constantly (although, having spent time in the flat, they still tripped over one another more often than not). They’d acquired rugs in every color and beanbags to match, strung up strands of lights, deposited a potted plant in every corner, and called it home. 

As Atlas settled, Grantaire took a second to give Jehan a bear hug and wish them a blessed Yule—Jehan celebrated Christmas _and_ Yule, answering questions of “why?” with a shrug and a vague response about “not angering too many gods”—and shove his Santa hat back on before tumbling into Jehan’s crowded, colorful living room. 

He recognized a few of the faces around the room from his time working with Jehan, and his friend slung their arm over his shoulders to introduce him. Two men he remembered seeing before faced each other over a classic Battleship board and looked for all the world like two twenty-something generals of opposing armies wearing crooked reindeer antlers, pausing to grin at each other between turns. 

“Joly! Boss!” Jehan shouted, and the pair looked up with matching creases around their eyes as they smiled. “This is Grantaire, we work at the coffee shop together. Actually, wait—” they stuck two fingers between their lips and let out a screeching whistle. The noise in their flat clattered to a halt, and Grantaire felt several pairs of eyes flick to him curiously. “ _Everyone,_ this is Grantaire, we work together, be good to him.” 

“Call me R, if you want,” Grantaire added after Jehan’s introduction. “Glad to be here.” 

His heart pounded for a few seconds in his chest, and he grinned wider to compensate. He fought the urge to fidget with his backpack straps. Around the room, eyes turned away from him amicably, and Jehan patted his shoulder twice before heading to the kitchen. Grantaire followed in their path, walking in on Jehan and two of their friends chatting as Jehan stirred a big pot of cider on the stove. Grantaire snatched a mug out of the cabinet and Jehan passed him the ladle. 

“There’s someone you should meet,” Jehan said as Grantaire poured himself a mug of cider, “though I’m not sure if he’s still on a call.” His friend caught him by the elbow and started to tug him out of the room. 

With an apologetic nod to the two men they’d walked in on—Bahorel and Feuilly, Grantaire would come to learn—Jehan dragged him out. “It’s Enjolras,” he said, “the one you met that once, the angry-looking blond?”

 _Oh._ Enjolras had been hard for Grantaire to forget, lodging himself deep in his brain and obstinately refusing to leave. He’d commented on Grantaire’s earrings, handed Jehan a book, and ordered a medium chai latte, no sugar. 

He’d been _really_ hard to forget. 

“I think he’s out on the balcony still, but he’s been on calls since the party got going—something about the government, he’s been fighting some of their legislation for a few weeks here.” Jehan brightened. “But if it’s going well, then maybe he’ll let himself relax for a night. He said he wanted to meet you again when we last talked.” 

They carried on as if Jehan hadn’t just dropped a bombshell on Grantaire. And, sure enough, a tall, lean blond figure was resting against the railing outside, the glow from a cell phone lighting his face up. Jehan knocked twice quickly on the door, and the man turned around, and _oh._

He was gorgeous, to start with, and looked startled at the interruption, annoyance sharpening his features even in the soft lighting. Jehan excused themself, and pushed Grantaire gently out the door with a passing word about tending to the cider. 

“Call me R?” Grantaire offered, half a smile cracking his face, but Enjolras didn’t seem to hear, giving him a twice-over that sent shivers running up from his boots. His expression softened imperceptibly as he made his way up, and by the time they locked eyes he was close to a smile. 

“What’s your take on what the government’s saying about women this time?” 

Grantaire felt like he’d been pinned backwards to the balcony door. Whatever words tumbled past his lips were clearly what Enjolras wanted to hear, though—from what he heard himself say, it was something like “they should keep their hands the fuck off of them”—and he welcomed him outside, shifting halfway down the balcony to give him space. Predictably, Grantaire found himself wishing he’d brought something actual to drink, instead of the mug of mulled cider, but at least it was something to do with his hands. 

He tried not to stare at Enjolras out of the corner of his eye, but every time he glanced up blue eyes were watching him right back. 

They talked quietly deep into the night. As the hours ticked by, they got louder: Grantaire would laugh out loud, and it would echo across the street. Midnight passed, and they managed to exchange numbers as Jehan kicked everyone out—although why Enjolras even _wanted_ his number after he’d spent the evening talking stiltedly and making a fool of himself was beyond him. 

Grantaire woke up the next day to a single text from an unknown number: _Merry Christmas. –Enj._

He smiled, and typed back _Merry Christmas._

_Christmas Eve, last year_

Christmas Eve at Jehan’s had become tradition. Grantaire and Jehan worked earlier now, and Grantaire seldom took an extra shift on Christmas Eve. He had _places_ to be, after all. Work ended, and they walked the blocks to their flat together, and the party was in full swing by the time they got there. 

Enjolras opened the door, Courfeyrac beside him with an arm draped jauntily over his shoulder, and they waved them through happily. Courfeyrac disentangled himself as Grantaire stepped over the door jamb, and disappeared to drape himself over the armrest of the couch next to Combeferre as he scrolled through Netflix’s holiday section. 

Atlas was at Jehan’s feet, paw up against their thigh, and Grantaire sidestepped carefully around them as Atlas gave their face a thorough licking. He pulled his coat off, one sleeve at a time catching on the buttons of his flannel underneath so he had to disentangle them manually. By the time he was free, draping his coat over the pile of his friends’—five years meant they were friends, officially, and they had group chats with strange names to prove it—and turned around, Enjolras was there. 

It wasn’t that he’d come just to see Enjolras, but… it was a perk, and it was _fun_ to get trapped in conversation—debate—for hours on end. The nights where it fizzled out naturally, dissolving into laughing at each other’s failed points and slips of the tongue and agreeing to disagree or, more frequently, agreeing to take it up some other time, were Grantaire’s favorite. 

Jehan knew this. To be fair, Jehan knew a lot of things, and they’d had to oust Enjolras and Grantaire from their couch in the middle of sentences before. So as they disappeared to the kitchen and left Enjolras and Grantaire alone in the entryway, Grantaire had a strong suspicion they knew exactly what they were doing. He started to make his way into the flat beside Enjolras, who awkwardly side-stepped away before they even made it a step. 

Enjolras gestured up, and Grantaire followed the motion obediently to a ball of lush, green leaves speckled with white berries. “Mistletoe,” he breathed, and Enjolras nodded. 

“Bossuet’s idea of a joke, although Joly didn’t really seem to mind.” He brushed it off with a shrug, and walked a careful radius around the mistletoe. “‘Ferre’s working on movies, the current vote’s between Home Alone and Die Hard, which,” he scowled slightly as he stepped around Cosette and Éponine, engrossed in decorating a gingerbread cookie, “Die Hard isn’t a Christmas movie.” 

Grantaire bumped good-naturedly into his side. “Die Hard is a Christmas movie. It happens at Christmas, doesn’t it?” He and Enjolras navigated their way across the room carefully. 

“It’s not Christmas-themed, it just _happens_ to be happening around Christmas.” Grantaire tossed himself down in the only remaining chair (the beanbags on the floor were most of their friends’ preferred method of sitting), and Enjolras perched himself on the armrest without a moment’s hesitation. Combeferre glanced up, and quietly clicked back onto Home Alone. Bahorel groaned in annoyance, and Grantaire caught himself smiling at his friend, Santa hat sitting crooked atop his head. 

All thoughts were wiped away in a heartbeat when Enjolras leaned back into the chair, his arm resting lightly against Grantaire’s side as he settled in. He didn’t seem perturbed, and his expression looked almost satisfied, lips quirked up at one corner and posture loose as he argued the merits of watching anything but Die Hard on Christmas Eve. 

Eventually, in a five-to-six vote—Grantaire for Die Hard, Enjolras for Home Alone—they decided on Home Alone, and Enjolras looked vindicated as the opening credits began. Atlas trotted in from the kitchen, basketball-sized head coming to rest in Grantaire’s lap as he stared up with liquid brown eyes. He scratched behind his ears for a moment, attention flicking to focus solely on the dog, and as such he didn’t catch Enjolras readjusting next to him until he was sliding down the side of the chair, squashing in next to him. Grantaire’s heart kicked into overdrive, and he chanced a glance up at Enjolras. 

Bad decision, because he was already looking at him, brow furrowed. He raised one eyebrow in an approximation of a “this okay?” and Grantaire nodded wordlessly. Enjolras relaxed imperceptibly next to him, and that was that as he tried to rectify his pounding heart and dry mouth. 

Despite the tension in their armchair-sized world, Grantaire was still happier than he’d been in a long time, and he ignored the movie for a minute to burn the image of his friends, splayed out around Jehan’s living room, in his mind. The flat had been decorated for Christmas, and it was jollier than usual with lights strung between the bookshelves, holly wreaths on the mantle, and the entire place smelling of cinnamon. 

A lock of hair brushed against his ear as Enjolras leaned over onto his shoulder. 

His heart did that panicking thing again. 

He rested his cheek carefully against the top of Enjolras’s head. 

It felt… really nice, all things considered. The movie faded permanently into background noise against the humming in his head. The things being considered made themselves incredibly noticeable: his years-long _thing_ for Enjolras, which fought mightily against the oppressive, cozy warmth of Jehan’s flat and won out easily. 

They didn’t do this ever. Their friendship consisted of debating and fact-checking, and sometimes taking care of each other quietly. Enjolras would order him to go to bed early for once; Grantaire would reply only if he woke up at a normal hour and didn’t torture himself with 5:30 AM and too much coffee. But the warmth between them was just enough that it had left Grantaire hoping for five years, ever since he met Enjolras properly on Jehan’s balcony and felt his entire world shift to include him. 

Enjolras’s hand absently sought his own, and he folded his fingers into his hand without looking, as if visually affirming what his sense of touch was telling him would cause Enjolras to disappear in a puff of smoke. He tentatively ran his thumb over Enjolras’s knuckles, and shoved down the thoughts asking him what dream world he was living in. 

He tried to follow what was happening on-screen as Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta determinedly quoted bits they remembered and mimed the intruders’ misfortunes, but the periodic motion of Enjolras laughing against his side was infinitely distracting, and also something he wanted to commit to memory forever. 

The movie ended all too quickly, and Enjolras stirred, lifting his head up and giving Grantaire a soft, happy smile. 

“Are you okay?” he asked. “Like, are you sick, or something?” It was the only rationalization he’d been able to come to, and regretted it immediately as Enjolras’s expression flipped from comfortable to defensive and something sharper.

He shifted further away from Grantaire, and even the heated air of the apartment felt cold in the absence. “I just thought… never mind.” Enjolras stood up and turned around to Combeferre to talk, and a tiny hole opened up in Grantaire’s chest. He busied himself with getting up to help Jehan find marshmallows in the cabinets (they wound up hiding under a box of Turkish tea that had been forgotten about) and pulling together the ingredients for a frankly ridiculous amount of hot cocoa. 

Together, they carried it out and set up on the coffee table, and Courfeyrac laughingly produced a flask of some unidentified alcohol. He went around pouring a bit in everyone’s mug who held it out, but Grantaire waved him off gently. 

He watched out of the corner of his eye as Enjolras did the same. 

The rest of the night devolved into drinking hot chocolate, laughing, and an ill-fated round of Cards Against Humanity until Jehan, rubbing at their eyes as they leaned back against Atlas’s side, declared it bedtime for everyone. 

Enjolras left at the same time as him that night, and Enjolras stepped dutifully around the mistletoe in the entryway before catching Grantaire by the wrist and pulling him into a quick, tight hug, the hand around his wrist squashed between them.

“Merry Christmas, Grantaire,” he said as he stepped back, tugging the hem of his jacket down to straighten out the wrinkles Grantaire had pressed into it. For a split second, it looked as though he was going to say something else, but he ducked his head and headed for the stairs before anything came out. 

“Merry Christmas, Enjolras,” Grantaire shouted down the hallway before swinging Jehan’s door back open to help drag all the beanbags back to their designated corners, still puzzling quietly over the look in Enjolras’s eyes.

_Christmas Eve, now_

This year, Grantaire got to Jehan’s incredibly late. There’d been a mix-up with his landlord, and he’d had to go home and deal with the bathroom sink again, so it was with a dour air of annoyance that he finally trudged up the stairs to Jehan’s flat and knocked. 

His friend’s bright, smiling face lifted his spirits marginally, and the expressions of joy that he’d managed to make it from the residents of the living room had him feeling almost back to normal as he swept the room for Enjolras, who was dishearteningly absent. Jehan appeared behind him and deposited a Santa hat on his head. 

“You look like you could use some cheer,” they said, and Grantaire pulled them in sideways for a hug. 

“And you know me too well, Jean Prouvaire.” He reached up to ruffle his friend’s ginger hair, and Jehan ducked out of the way with a grin. “By the way,” he began, and only felt a tiny twinge of how desperate he looked, “have you seen—?” 

Before he could even finish the question, they jerked their chin towards the balcony, where, sure enough, a familiar lanky figure leaned against the railing, staring out over the city. 

“Go get ‘em, tiger,” Jehan said, before patting Grantaire hearteningly on the shoulder and disappearing towards the sound of Bahorel’s laugh. 

His heart leapt back into his throat—that sensation was familiar by now, after six years of it happening _every time he saw Enjolras_ —and he pulled his hat down tighter over his ears before sliding the door open. Enjolras turned around at the sound, and _God, he was beautiful._ Grantaire knew that, but at the moment it warranted restating. 

“Hey.” 

“Hey,” Enjolras answered. He nodded towards the balcony railing, and Grantaire joined him, standing perhaps a bit too close, but Enjolras didn’t tell him to move. “I’d worried you weren’t coming,” he said after a few moments. “Christmas Eve wouldn’t be the same without you here.” 

That set something in Grantaire off, and he cocked his head sideways. “Sounds like you missed me,” he joked, and the earnestness in Enjolras’s expression was off-putting. 

“I did.” 

_Huh?_

“Huh?” 

Enjolras took a deep breath. “Would you like to spend New Year’s with me?” For the first time since Grantaire had met him, his voice betrayed a hint of nervousness, and Grantaire bet that if the tips of his ears weren’t already red from the cold, they’d be blushed. 

“As friends?” It seemed a tad odd that Enjolras was asking him this alone, when the rest of their friends were just inside, and—

Oh, now he was _really_ blushing. 

“I was hoping as something else,” Enjolras said. 

Grantaire spluttered for half a second. “You’ve got to be joking,” he said, “I thought you were just oblivious this whole time.” 

“Would an oblivious person do _this?_ ” he said, and pulled Jehan’s entryway ball of mistletoe out of his pocket. He cocked his head, asking permission, before holding the bundle of leaves over their head and leaning in to kiss Grantaire’s cheek gently. 

The balcony door banged open, and Jehan stuck their head out. “Sorry to break up an intimate moment”—their twinkly-eyed grin said the opposite—“but you two need to find somewhere other than my balcony to canoodle, I’m going to sleep.” They gestured grandly through the flat, and Grantaire fit his arm around Enjolras’s lower back, fitting into place like a puzzle piece. 

It was nice. 

Grantaire turned around to say goodbye to Jehan, and after an exchange of “Merry Christmas”es, Jehan winked at him. 

They discovered quickly that walking down the stairs with their arms around each other was incredibly difficult no matter how much they wanted to, and broke apart until they made it to the street. 

Enjolras fumbled his way into his gloves as Grantaire watched. “Put yours on, too,” he said when he noticed Grantaire wasn’t moving. 

Grantaire protested externally—“It’s not that far home, I won’t freeze”—but inside warmth filled his chest. 

“I’ll walk you home, then?” he asked, letting a smile spread all the way across his face, and Enjolras nodded. 

They walked quietly through the street, gloved hand in gloved hand, and it seemed as though Paris was smiling on them as they went. The air nipped at their cheeks and noses, and the streetlights glowed brighter in the cold, shining like stars. 

Enjolras’s flat wasn’t far enough away, by Grantaire’s standards, and they stood in the door for a few moments, just watching the city. 

“I’ll see you in a week,” Enjolras said, and a flash of excitement shot across his face. 

“G’night, Enjolras,” Grantaire started, before he cut himself off.“Wait, do you want me to come here? Or you can come to my place?” Somehow, the thought of Enjolras sitting on his couch seemed impossible, but all too alluring nonetheless. 

“I can come to your flat, if that’s okay.” 

It was okay, _more_ than okay, and Grantaire didn’t want to walk away, wanted to stand in Enjolras’s doorway until Christmas morning. 

But it was just a week. 

Just as he unlocked the door to his flat, his phone buzzed. 

_Merry Christmas, Grantaire._

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was for a lovely friend of mine in the [hoes for Enjolras](https://discord.com/invite/vERrqvA) Discord server, as a part of our first ever Hoeliday Exchange. I hope you liked it, dear.


End file.
